


BLU Is for Girls

by squeequeg



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Gen, Genderswap, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-24
Updated: 2011-07-11
Packaged: 2017-10-14 02:00:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 12,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/144106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squeequeg/pseuds/squeequeg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Notes on Team 18B, an all-female team who are just as sane as their counterparts on other BLU and RED teams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Team 18B

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Orichalxos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orichalxos/gifts).



> This is quite possibly the silliest thing I've ever written (edit: yes, even including Hippos Go Berserk! The Movie). Inspired partly by ChemicalAlia's female TF2 designs and partly by ways to mess with these characters while still keeping them (mostly) true to canon characterizations, this fic is dedicated to Orichalxos, the best beta in all of explored space.

ATTN: Administrator

FROM: Miss Pauling

RE: Team 18B

 

Dear Administrator,

After our conversation on Monday about the "team satisfaction survey" that the last round of management consultants sprung on us, I decided to check one of the outliers: Team 18B (BLU division), the team with the highest reported employee satisfaction rate (using the consultants' terms) has a fairly standard kill count and an excellent track record, but as you pointed out, that high a level of contentment means that something is most likely amiss.

The most obvious problem is a potential violation of the company-wide Directive 11.  As I'm sure I don't have to remind you, Directive 11 stipulates "all possible traces of friendship are to be torn up, incinerated, and the ground sown with salt and shrapnel."  However, I believe this particular BLU team will not need to be sent to the abbatoir just yet; while the team has cohered as a whole (see addendum 12a, "Karaoke Night" and attached bills for private property damage), no member of the team is sane enough to sustain a lasting friendship.  I've attached a number of associated documents, anecdotes, and other records that should demonstrate this in no uncertain terms.

What's odd is that Team 18B is one of the teams that we assembled after starting our outreach program -- the one that we've kept secret from Mr. Hale and Mann Co., on the grounds that they don't react well to women on the battlefield.  I don't know that this has any relevance to the apparent morale of the team, but they do seem to have formed a bond that, given the following pages, I am reluctant to call friendship.  To that end, I'd like to submit these documents with one question: should we do something about this team, or leave them as they are?

Incidentally, I've had the management consultants delivered to the polar bear hunting grounds with instructions that they be dropped out of the plane only after the steaks have been firmly attached to their clothing.  May I suggest that if one does actually return for a second round, we consider hiring them as endurance experts?

\-- Miss Pauling

 

 _Pauling: If any of those morons makes it back here, send them on to Saxton Hale.  They can share bear-punching stories._


	2. Pip (Scout)

To date, we have received fifteen inter-team complaints regarding Philippa Bambina, thirteen of which were lodged during baseball playoff season.  Surprisingly, none of them refer to her gender, even from the unisex teams, suggesting that the problem is not that we have hired a female scout but that we have hired a "sewer-swilling Brooklyn rat of a Yankees fan."  I suspect this is mainly due to the geographically-limited applicant pool we draw on for other scouts.  Philippa's response to these complaints so far has been renewed glee in facing her counterparts, verging on bloodthirstiness.  The one anomaly in her record is that she was not originally referred to us as a scout, but as an accountant, in what I am beginning to suspect was the result of our New York representative's immersion in the less savory aspects of the city.  I would check on this -- office scuttlebutt has it that by getting Pip out of the city, he earned himself two weeks' respite on a defaulted loan -- but since contact with him was cut off at the same time as that terrible explosion at the cement factory, I'm inclined to let the matter rest.  As for Pip, were it not for her complete lack of common sense, I might suggest she look into middle management training if she tires of her current occupation.

 

 _Pauling: Don't let that stop you.  We could use a few more ruthless bastards in accounts receivable, and I understand she's already good with a bat._

 

"...so then I said, 'Hey buddy, you got a train to catch?'  And this Heavy, he just gets this look like there's a thought in there somewhere, and just then the train comes through like WHAM!"  Pip swung her bat to illustrate her point, and the engineer trailing in her wake automatically ducked.  "Boo-yah!  Oh, man, you shoulda seen it.  But the best part -- hey, you listening?"

Ginny looked up from her Build-o-Matic, which had been sparking for the last two minutes.  "Hm?  Yeah, I'm listening."  

"'Kay.  So anyway, the best part is that once the train goes by, trailing little bits everywhere, his poor medic's standing on the far side lookin' like he just lost his teddy bear."  Pip slung her bat over her shoulders and kicked open the door to the canteen.  "Do Krauts have teddy bears?  I'll ask the doc.  Anyway, he's just standing there --"  

She stopped short, her sneakers squeaking against the linoleum.  The BLU medic, Frau Doktor Eisenbrust, stood with her arms folded between them and the little kitchen that was all the base had for a canteen.  Most people, on seeing her, would have assumed she was in a bad mood; only long association and familiarity informed both the young scout and engineer that she was in a really quite foul mood.  

Not that this stopped Pip.  "Oh, heya Doc.  'Sup?" 

A faint twitch started up at the corner of Eisenbrust's left eye.  "There is a phone call," she said.  "For someone's little _bambina_."

Ginny chuckled, but the blood slowly drained from Pip's face.  "Ma?  It's not my ma, is it?"

"I really doubt anyone else has a similar pet name."  She gestured to the little niche at the far end of the canteen, where the BLU Heavy Weapons Woman stood over the phone as if deciding whether to eat or smash it.  

"You -- you didn't tell her I was here, did you?"

Eisenbrust smiled thinly.  "Scout, do you remember what you said when I told you to stop drinking so much Bonk?"

Pip's brow furrowed.  "Hang on, hang on, I know this one . . . yeah, I said you could take your stethoscope and stuff it -- oh."

Eisenbrust nodded.  "Consider this payback."  

The skinny girl tried to bolt, only to be held firmly in place by a hand on the back of her uniform.  "Ginny?  Come on, lemme go!"

"You gotta talk to her sometime, Pip," Ginny said amiably, still fiddling with her Build-o-Matic.  "'Sides, I ain't forgotten what you did to my wrenches."

"What, that?  That was hilarious!  And I put them all back -- well, back in the box anyway.  Not my fault you had them labeled funny."

The engineer spun her around and shoved her toward the phone.  "She's all yours, Doc."

"Good.  And do not insult my steiff-teddy again, _Phillippa_ ," Eisenbrust added.

With a theatrical droop, Pip slunk across the canteen.  "Fine.  Hey Heavy, let me talk to my ma."

Medvedovna regarded her, arms crossed.  It wasn't unlike getting scrutinized by a glacier.  "Tiny scout would not shut up when I was cleaning Ilya.  Ilya did not get cleaned properly.  Ilya misfired last battle.  This is tiny scout's fault."

Pip sighed.  "Okay, fine, it's my fault, now let me talk to Ma."

"She is already talking."  Medvedovna stepped aside to reveal the little phone niche -- and the most cosmopolitan member of the team perched within, gesturing with her cigarette holder and laughing in some animated conversation.  

" _What_?  No, don't let -- dammit, Amelie --"  With some difficulty, Pip pushed her way past Medvedovna and stood panting in front of the French spy.  "Phone.  Now."

Amelie raised an eyebrow, murmured "perhaps another time, cherie," and rose gracefully to her feet.  "Charming woman," she said as she passed Pip.  

Pip turned purple and snatched the phone away.  "Ma?  What are you talking about?  Listen, don't believe a word she -- yeah, I know she seems nice, they all seem nice, Ma, that's the thing!  Look, Ma --"

Sparky stumped past, carrying a gasoline can, regarded Pip in silence for a moment, then pointed and laughed.  Pip swiped at her with her bat, but only succeeded in overbalancing and nearly dropping the phone.  "No, Ma, I'm fine.  No, it's not some kind of animal.  It's just Sparky -- look, she's just like that.  Sparky, can it, will you?  No, Ma, she's not 'special.'  Not the way you mean."

Across the canteen, Ginny settled down with a cup of coffee and a corn muffin.  "Can't say I don't sympathize, but she did really have this coming, bless her heart," she remarked.  

"Who had what coming?"  A cup of lukewarm coffee settled by her elbow, followed by Mack the soldier, sitting as if she were still at attention.  "Which of my troops has been derelict in her duty?"

Ginny tried to gesture across the room, where Pip was now gesturing frantically to someone -- Molly, it looked like, who had finally emerged from her room with a bottle of scrumpy in hand.  Pip made a pleading face and pointed to the phone.  Molly simply looked at her, held up the scrumpy, held up a almost-identical bottle marked "SPRING WATER," and shook her head.  

"Was it Bunny?  Or Medvedovna?"  Mack's helmet slid forward, and she glared at her coffee.  "I will bet a not insignificant amount of cash that it was whoever cleaned the coffeepot!  That patina took months to build up properly!"  

"No one, really," Ginny said in a placating tone.  "Pip's just trying to get out of talking with her mother.  Not that I blame her, but she'd have better luck if she hadn't ticked off darn near everyone in this last week."  

"Ma, no," Pip could be heard saying, "see, it's a good job.  No, I'm not in accounting, ma, that was just what was on the letter -- well, it's not accounting, I can tell you that.  No, I don't need your help finding a place, I've got a place to live already on the base -- okay, forget I said that, Ma --"

Mack tipped her helmet back, and she downed the entire cup of coffee in one slug.  "Nevertheless," she declared, "it is incumbent on me as your commanding officer to undertake duties to the emotional and spiritual holisticicity of my troops!  And a familial relationship is a vital thing to any such matters!"

"Yes, Mack, we know.  And your moms called again last week."

"Exactly!"  Mack shuddered slightly, then got up.  "I will handle this," she announced, and strode over to the phone.  

Pip's expression turned even more dubious, but she handed the phone over to Mack and sauntered back over.  "Well, that wasn't so bad," she announced.  "So where was I?  Oh yeah, the medic.  So he's standing there with this look on his face --"

Ginny sighed and tuned out the rest of the story, nodding wherever seemed appropriate.  After a moment, it seemed to reach an end or at least a stopping point.  "Sounds just keen," she said absently.

"I agree heartily!"  Both scout and engineer looked up to see Mack standing over them.  "I particularly enjoyed the part where you destroyed your enemy's spirit!  Well done, scout, and continue to do so in the future!"

Pip stared openmouthed.  "You didn't -- did you hang up on my ma?"

"Oh no.  I simply handed her over to someone else."  She gestured to the niche, where Bunny, who was too tall for the little alcove to begin with and certainly unsuited for it with her sniper rifle over her shoulder, was chatting happily and dragging the phone with her.

"Of course she's meeting lots of nice men," Bunny caroled.  "And she's killing so many of them! Especially with her bat -- I swear, she doesn't leave one with two intact kneecaps in her wake! Bashes in their heads like lots of little RED pinatas!  Do you know what a pinata is?  I mean, do you have them in the States?  I saw my first one when I did my black ops training, and let me tell you, they make 'em different there --"

"Oh, _crap_."  Pip leapt up and charged across the canteen so fast she knocked over three chairs and Sparky's gas can, which for some reason smelled of Karo syrup rather than anything flammable.  "Bunny, stop talking.  Stop talking now.  Ma, don't listen -- Ma?" Pip was silent a moment, her eyes wide, then said "Okay.  Okay, Ma.  Thanks.  Give them my love too.  Love ya."  She set down the phone, then tottered over to the kitchenette as unsteadily as if she'd just been hit with her own bat.  

"You all right, Pip?"

"Apparently," she said slowly, "Uncle Vito's never been prouder of me, and he wants to teach me some tips on using my bat effectively."  A slow smile spread over her face.  "This is gonna be _awesome_."


	3. Mack (Soldier)

Our company has a long and proud tradition of hiring veterans of dubious record and even more dubious sanity to be the backbones of our teams, and I am proud to say that the trend has continued unabated. Andromache Hippolyta Undomiel Moonbeam bears the same acute grasp of reality as any of our other soldiers, with her own unique flair, and I can say with all confidence that so long as she is in charge of an all-female squad, she will be one of our most loyal employees. That said, I'm certain you are aware of the major downside of Mack's employment with us, namely the repeated phone calls from the EarthHug Womyn's Collective. As I understand it, while Mack's mothers are very proud of her for smashing down gender barriers, they want her to stop "mindlessly partaking in the phallocentric bellocracy." Your guess is as good as mine on the last bit. Regardless, I'd advise keeping Mack on, at least for her motivational speeches.

 _Pauling: Have all further calls from the Collective rerouted to Mr. Hale and recorded. And make some popcorn._

LADIES! As I look out upon this fine body of fighting women, every one of you a veritable Penthesilea, I cannot help but notice that we are lacking in enthusiasm! How this can be when every day brings a new challenge, a new battle, a new crop of heads to be torn from their bodies and hoisted shrieking on our spears while the Maenad cry splits the air, is a quandary I cannot even begin to unravel! After some thought, it occurs to me that you are in need of MOTIVATION!

("Oh, not again. Didn't we have one of these last Tuesday?")

("This better not go on too long. I've got an experiment running in the canteen, and if I'm not back in time, Sentry 4.2 might go rogue.")

Perhaps it is the fact that we have faced one too many teams composed solely of the gender unfit for fighting -- perhaps you begin to doubt your own skills! In that case, I say take heart, ladies, for only those who can bleed for eight days are fit to be on the field of battle!

Take heart, I say, and learn from the example of Elizabeth the First, who, in the person of her crime-fighting alter ego Britomart, single-handedly prevented the Spanish Luftwaffe from landing on the shores of her deserted island home, armed only with her fleet of rocket-propelled urchins! Charge boldly forward, much as that fabled seamstress and ninjutsu master Betsy Ross did before tearing out Benedict Arnold's throat with her FINGERNAILS! Remember the single most important lesson of history, learned too late by the Mongols at Crecy: there is no man that can stand against a horde of angry women, particularly when Eleanor of Aquitaine rides before them shooting ARROWS OUT OF HER EYES!

("Is...is she even awake?")

("Oh ja. Medically speaking. Olga is not one to waste valuable brain cells on preservation of dross. I will inform her of any important developments in the course of time.")

Truly, in attack is our greatest hope of apotheosis. Not that I wish to denigrate the fighting prowess of our support teams! Whether it is in the noble arena of the healing arts -- by which we are renewed to once again GNAW THE LIMBS OFF our foes -- or in the indispensable dispensation of supplies for when our teeth are no longer as sharp -- or the eagle-eyed Artemis who strikes down from above any who venture too close to our supply lines!

("Is she talking about me?")

("Oui, petit lapin. Oui. Pay no attention.")

("Oh, I never do. I skip the cutscenes, after all. But it's nice to be thought of!")

("...d'accord.")

Even now, I see that among you the work goes on! Well illustrated, my incendiary friend, and may you like the goddess Pele destroy those who trespass on your domain! Continue in your work, Madame DuFarge, and may you encode the names of our enemies into the lists of the damned!

("Hrrda hrr!")

("What the hell are you knitting? Is that a...flamethrower cozy?")

("Hrr!")

Yes, these arts, denigrated by those who do not know better, are also part of our mighty arsenal! In your exploits, your attacks, remember and emulate Zenobia of Palmyra, who among her many martial conquests still had time to invent PANTS! Wear your trousers with pride, ladies, knowing that your loins are clad in the traditions of your foremothers!

Except you, Molly. That plaid thing is fine. Very multicultural.

("Kiss-ass.")

("Shut yer gob.")

Where was I? Oh yes. You are not here to be kind! You are not here to follow the role of the diplomat, the make-nicer who is there to make nice! No, your role is that of the midwife to their common sense, bringing it squalling into the world with a good hard smack of reality! For as Susan B. Anthony said to Teddy Roosevelt before BEATING HIM TO DEATH WITH HIS OWN WOODEN LEG, the only thing sweeter than universal suffrage is the universal suffering of one's enemies!

Ours is the power of creation! Ours, too, is the power of destruction! Listen to the omphalic utterances of that true root of femininity -- yes, listen to your uterus, and it will tell you to go out there and KILL!

At ease, sisters-in-arms. I'll see you all in the canteen.

* * *

Some of Mack's speech has been borrowed with permission from a friend's similarly motivational speech.


	4. Amelie (Spy)

Amelie LaCroix is technically not an employee at all but a consultant "on loan" to us from, at last count, five separate governments.  This alone is enough to recommend her in my view, and her track record with BLU has proven it several times over.  By even an informal count, she is directly responsible for twenty-two cases of paranoia, six permanent facial tics, four identity crises, and one total psychotic break (the scout in question has been left incapable of saying anything but "Ma! Nooo!" which according to that team's engineer is an improvement).  I've informed our accounting team to match her fees no matter what she charges (up to a point, of course), since it's clear that she's perfect in her role.  However, her presence does create a few minor problems, as three of the five governments in question have asked us to inform them as soon as LaCroix leaves the country.

 _Pauling: Don't bother.  If they can't keep track of her, they deserve whatever coup she has planned._

 

Official Record Concerning Subject A

February 28: Subject A spotted leaving the Grand Hall of Our Illustrious Forefathers, seat of the H____ regime.  Two hours later, the Chartreuse Revolution throws the country into five weeks of anarchy.  What is especially disturbing is that despite the paranoid levels of security that are a hallmark of the H____ regime, there is no record of Subject A ever entering the Grand Hall.  Agent 331 has referred case up to Washington for further review.

March 7: Subject A enters militia outpost Bravo Ten in the jungles of P____.  External records confirm that she was, at the time, equipped with only a letter opener and a deck of playing cards.  Forty minutes later, ten P____ rebels emerge from the bunker with their hands behind their heads and surrender.  Eight minutes after that, the second-in-command of the rebels emerges and does the same, sobbing uncontrollably.  Four minutes after that, the bunker explodes.

April 11: Weapons shipment in Belarus goes missing at the point of escort.  Agent 331 swears that he saw Subject A driving the truck, and the footage does seem to back him up.

April 18: Weapons shipment turns up in Taklamakan.  Agent 331 arrives just in time to see Subject A depart from it by helicopter. 

May 4: NSA locates Subject A dining alone at Le Crouton Vert, New York City.  President notified and National Guard placed on high alert.  Subject A, however, did nothing but order the creme brulee, then depart, disappearing en route to the next city block.  Meal was charged to [name and rank redacted for security reasons].  No discernible fallout save that Le Crouton Vert subsequently lost its five-star rating, leading to repeated public suicide attempts by the head chef.

August 3: Five separate tellers at Champignon Trust attest that they cashed a check for Subject A.  No other records of the check exist, and through an extraordinary series of coincidences, the security camera footage ended up pureed and fed to Pokey the Lemur at the municipal zoo.  A connection to the Champignon Trust fraud arrests later in the week cannot be substantiated.  Agent 331 interrogated the lemur; both are recovering.

September 20: The brass has responded to Agent 331's reports with the question "so is she on our side, or what?"  Agent 331 has gone up to Washington to explain the situation. 

October 15: A note from Soothing Pines Care Facility states that Agent 331's recovery from his earlier nervous breakdown has suffered a serious setback in the form of a large flower arrangement and Get Well Soon card from Subject A.  While Agent 331 ate most of the flowers, the remainder have been tested for toxins and have come up negative.

December 1: Subject A moves into the private sector for the time being.  She thanks you for showing her such a good time.

December 2: Subject A spotted leaving this facility and blowing a kiss to the security cameras.  Repeated sweeps of the records show that she took nothing, inspected nothing, and in fact only made one alteration to our files: the line above in this particular file.  I can't see any other changes, but just in case I'm turning this into a dead file.  Agent 331 says I can have the lower bunk at Soothing Pines as long as I don't snore.


	5. Ginny (Engineer)

According to our legal department, Dr. Virginia Culp has cost us $80,000 in legal fees, $153,000 in property damage, $25,000 personal damages, and $348,026,54.07 in unspecified "hush money."  This is all due to, and offset by, her incidental inventions (see attachments G, "Sentry 3.8" and H, "Dispenser Elite").  Given that our R&D department's response to even the exploded remnants of her work can be described as enthusiastic verging on obscene, I suspect the current state of affairs is likely to continue.  Some of the costs could be cut if Dr. Culp was more prolific during home matches, as we have better containment facilities on-site, but the opposite is the case, apparently due to the greater opportunity for distraction when off-site.  However, it does suggest a temporary cost-cutting measure, should we need to stall between legal payoffs: keep her too busy to "get the pistons greased" (her words, not mine) and keep her on-site.  The one downside to this is that such lulls in her personal life invariably result in wholesale rageful slaughter of the opposing team, plus the destruction of most of the arena.  I therefore suggest it only as a stopgap measure, and in general recommend that we leave her alone.

 

 _Pauling: Wholesale slaughter is never a downside! Where have you_ been _, girl?_

 

Excerpts from field notes:

\- Sentry 2.0 field test ran into some problems.  Bugs to fix include: line-of-sight issues, increased firing range, lack of aerial support, and a crippling vulnerability to sticky bombs.  The need for perpetual manual rebooting is also suboptimal.  

\- Had to pause work on Sentry 2.1 to revamp Dispenser 1.3N in order to reduce risk of user error.  Also, apparently necessary to redesign medical output hose so that an opposing Heavy can't cram Pip's head into it.  On the bright side, dispensing function continued despite blockage, resulting in a fully healed Pip even if she did have to be cut loose.

\- Tests on Sentry 2.2 started out very promising.  It was then promptly sapped.  Remonstrated with RED spy.  Used wrench.  Now all the remaining pieces of 2.2 are gummed up stickier than bear snot.  Asked Molly if she'd share her scrumpy; I need a drink.

\- Asked to borrow Amelie's Electro-Sapper for technical analysis.  Was told that "that would be spoiling the fun, cher."  Not ten minutes later Frenchy asked me for a tune-up on her Disguise-o-Tron.  Girl's been spending too much time with Bunny, bless her heart; I swear the stupid's starting to rub off on her.

\- Tests of Teleporter 3.0 were less than ideal, as the anti-splice precautions (to reduce the risk of someone ending up with a fly's head; not that this has happened but Bunny refused to use the dadratted thing unless I made the adjustment and I really am not up to dealing with an angry Amelie again) had some unfortunate side effects.  Limb multiplication was unexpected, I'll admit.  Tester referred to Eisenbrust for treatment.  Asked the doc if she minded the work, but apparently she's happy to have the extra hands around the place.

\- Falure of Sentry 2.3 upgrade.

\- Nigh-catastrophic failure of Sentry 2.4.

\- Scratch the "nigh" on the previous record; found some of the remaining detonators.  

\- Perhaps mobility is the problem?  Mama always said what can't reach you can't hurt you.  Adding treads.

\- Sentry 2.5 is now a mobile catastrophic failure.  Eisenbrust says there are no hard feelings, but I'm not coming out until Medvedovna's calmed down.  Maybe some kind of improved targeting system?

\- On the road; Molly and Pip interrupted work on Sentry 2.6 for a girls' night out.  I could use the time off, and it's not like I'm getting anything new done.

\- They grow them frisky out this way!  Didn't get the young man's name, but I repaired his coffee maker on my way out, so that counts for something.  Also stole his pillowcase, but that's because I stayed up writing out new plans on it.  Remember: bring graph paper for next girls' night out!

\- Added improved treads to Sentry 2.7.

\- Amelie stopped by to pick up her Disguise-o-Tron.  First user complaint came two minutes later (new record!) when she discovered that all disguises were of her in her skivvies.  Told her I thought fixing it would spoil the fun.  Negotiated a compromise: new repairs have restored functionality, but 1 in 20 chance that the class she disguises as will also lack clothes.  I think she'll see the psychological advantage in time.

\- Added electro-force shield.  

\- Added advanced rockets. 

\- Added pseudosentient targeting system (should clear up some of the trouble we had earlier).  Sentry 2.7 is now ready for field testing!

\- For the record, "I am your creator!  You must obey me!" is currently 0 for 8 in terms of effectiveness.  See attachments for destructive capabilities.  

\- Beginning work on Sentry 3.0.  I think I know what I did wrong this time.  Oh, and apparently the guy's name was Steve, if the newspaper reports on "Caffeinator 3000 Attacks Downtown" are to be believed.  We'll have to come here again.


	6. Eisenbrust (Medic)

Had we a psychologist in our employ (you will note I do not count Team 14's "Tell Me About Your Mother" medic, since his idea of therapy involves high explosives), they might find a useful series of case studies in the strange coincidence that no matter the team, our medics and heavy weapons specialists tend to form a strong bond.  Officially, we ascribe this to their excellent combat synergy, which allows us to classify these relationships as outside the scope of Directive 11.  Unofficially, our online specialists have a number of theories, and I've attached a bibliography if you care to peruse them.  In this respect, Frau Doktor Eisenbrust and Olga Medvedovna are no different from any other team that at last count sent eighteen similar pairs crying back to their bases.  Eisenbrust is primarily a research physician, as her constant requests for funding prove, and while she displays the same aptitude for targeted vivisection as her colleagues, her approach tends toward the clinical and data-oriented rather than the "shoot first and ask questions later" method of research (cf. teams 4, 7, 8, 12, 19 through 27, and both primaries).  Eisenbrust's research into "Introduction of Non-Trivial Amounts of Pulverized Ferrous Objects on the Male Cranium" has stalled lately, mainly due to lack of funding, but I've forwarded her work to our R&D department.

 

 _Pauling: See if you can arrange funding for a follow-up study.  If those fainting chimps at the NIH complain, remind them who owns half of their subcommittee._

 _P.S. I don't particularly care to know what therapy is, but I see no reason why explosives can't improve it.  Have some funding sent Team 14's way._

 _P.P.S. And have our online specialists promoted and shot while you're at it.  Perhaps not in that order._

 

Dear Doctor Eisenbrust:

We apologize for the delay in responding to your submission of "The Effects of Percussive Damage and Accelerated Healing: A Case Study."  Our usual team of reviewers apparently had such violent reactions to your paper that we were forced to find new reviewers on short notice.  Our second round of reviewers, though less squeamish, had a number of substantive criticisms, leading us to regretfully state that we cannot accept your paper in its current form.  We do, however, invite you to incorporate our reviewers' remarks and resubmit a revised paper.

We have taken the liberty of summarizing our reviewers' remarks below, with the exception of Dr. Prang-Kibblet's final remarks, which consisted mainly of strings of vowels and repetitions of "dear God make her stop."  Based on our interpretation of your work, we are confident that you are used to ignoring such forms of criticism.

1\. Certain segments of your data seem garbled if not outright incoherent.  In figure 5-a, the subject appears to have been shot, stabbed, bludgeoned, burned, detonated, and what Dr. Prang-Kibblet insists on referring to as "freight-trained."  Yet the subject is still alive for figure 5-b.  If you intend to show the experiments in achronological order, please state so clearly at the beginning of the paper; if not, please rearrange and renumber your steps.

2\. A more detailed citation of the opposing viewpoint is required; certainly more detailed than "those RED fools."  MLA format will suffice.

3\. While we do not necessarily disagree, we suggest excising the references to the perfidy of French espionage practices.

4\. Your diagrams, though lurid, are less than usefully labeled; arrows marked "spleen!" "kidney!" and "more bits!" are not particularly helpful.  We also suggest you refamiliarize yourself with the definition of "exploded diagram."

5\. The most important criticism is that while your study promises several avenues for further research, it is nearly useless without a proper control group.  Dr. Prang-Kibblet is most vehement on this point, and we must agree with him that the subject's other arm does not constitute a satisfactory control group in the slightest, even if said arm was undamaged.

If these issues are addressed in the next draft, we see no reason why we could not publish your work.  Full reviewers' comments are attached.

 Sincerely,

\-- Editors, Journal of Medical Anomalies

 

Eisenbrust folded the letter with a resigned sigh and set it on the canteen table.  "Olga, liebe?"

The large Soviet looked up from her work in the little kitchenette she had co-opted for the last few hours.  "Da?"

"We've got some follow-up research to do."

Medvedovna shrugged.  "Will get Ilya in just one moment."

"No need.  Our most pressing concern is --" she began leafing through the full remarks, "-- finding a control subject."

"Control."  Medvedovna was silent for a moment, poking at something on the stove.  "Kidnapping RED Heavy difficult, but possible.  Have plan. Will need wig and potato."

"That shouldn't be necessary."  A thin smile rose to Eisenbrust's lips, and she raised one set of reviewer's remarks.  "I have one in mind already.  We'll need to travel off-base."

"Is good.  First, though," Medvedovna stepped out of the kitchenette carrying two plates, "we eat pirozhki."

Eisenbrust stared at the little dumplings before her, then folded the pages and tucked them in her lab coat.  "Ja.  A good meal before we begin work."


	7. Sparky (Pyro)

In terms of Directive 11, Sparky (real name redacted due to standing sub-directive Tiresias) is the most problematic of this particular team, to the point that I briefly instituted an archival investigation.  You see, the trouble with Sparky is that she is quite friendly with the other pyrotechnicians, repeatedly meeting after matches and exchanging documents over a nice cup of tea.  This would obviously be a major security breach even without Directive 11.  However, investigation revealed two things: the documents exchanged are recipes, usually for cookies but occasionally for napalm, and this has absolutely no effect on an individual pyrotechnicians' willingness to charbroil the same individual who shared their Walnut Blondie Surprise recipe.  In fact, it may have increased their enthusiasm, as one particularly brutal demonstration seems to have resulted from a batch of plagiarized snickerdoodles.  Any chance of this being imitated by other teammates is greatly reduced by the general perception of pyrotechnicians as "masked freaks."  Plus, we now have standardized napalm formulas company-wide, resulting in a minor but significant cost reduction.

 

 _Pauling: You obviously haven't spent any time around ladies' garden clubs if the increased viciousness is a surprise._

 

NOTICE OF OVERDUE FEES

Dear Library Patron,

The following items are listed as checked out by you on 10/13/XX and not yet returned.  

 _Fire-Worship in Prehistoric Societies_ , C.G. Andrews

 _101 Dangerous Chemicals You Can Make in Your Home!_ , Rutherford "Lefty" Trogg

 _Pyrodynamics_ (Advanced), Bernard Elliston

 _The Crazy World of Arthur Brown_ (audio disc, eponymous)

 _Love's Shivering Petal_ , Billy Moon

You will be charged $0.05 per book per day until these items are returned.

\-- Asst. Librarian Pamela Hutchings

 

Dear Library Patron,

It is against library policy to allow masks and other face-covering garments in the library.  Please remove them before your next visit.  Your overdue fines also continue to accrue; please return the items as soon as possible.

\-- Asst. Librarian Pamela Hutchings

 

Dear Library Patron,

Yes, that includes breathing apparati.

Also, leave the axe at home next time.  

\-- Pamela Hutchings

 

Dear Library Patron,

We ask that you not intimidate other patrons into giving up their spot on the reserve list.  Mrs. Tulip was quite unsettled by your tete-a-tete with her yesterday, and while this does mean that _Love's Quaking Flower_ is available for you to pick up (assuming, of course, that you have paid your overdue fines!), it would establish an unfortunate precedent to have people shunted off the list by an axe-wielding rubber-suited maniac.  

Even worse, our junior librarian witnessed your altercation and so failed to inform you that your overdue fines have exceeded the limit.  Consider this your official warning.

\-- Pamela Hutchings

 

Dear Library Patron,

Yes, this means you can pick it up now -- if you pay the dratted fines!  Frankly, I find Billy Moon's novels to be insipid pablum.  I don't know why we even bother to shelve them.

\-- Pamela Hutchings

 

Dear Library Patron,

Come over here and say that.

 -- Hutchings

 

To the Directors of Builders League United:

We appreciate your assistance in rebuilding the foyer and front steps of our facility, and in return, we will remove the fees and other infractions from the record of [NAME REDACTED].  However, we do ask that you stop poaching our assistant librarians.  Miss Hutchings is very much missed, and though we have received quite a few postcards from her at her new job with Builders League United, we do not have so many librarians that you can simply hire all of them away from us.

Also, [NAME REDACTED]'s copy of _Love's Fragile Blossom_ by Billy Moon has arrived.  Please ask her to pick it up immediately.

\-- Senior Librarian H. Powells


	8. Bunny (Sniper)

Normally, I am loath to question your hiring judgment, and I hasten to stress that I am not doing so now, but I confess that this particular BLU sniper makes me wonder where on earth you dug her up. Most of our snipers are cool, professional marksmen, unnerving but certainly efficient. And then there's Bunny (no last name given). Bunny has no documentation, unless you count the notarized letter signed by every inhabitant of Wagga Wagga pleading with us to never let her return to Australia. I'm not even sure "Bunny" is her real name, since she refers to it only as her "handle." While her kill count is only slightly below the median for her compatriots, her approach to work is, depending on your point of view, horrifying or hilarious. As an example, I'd like to remind you of the Granary incident, which aside from the sheer gruesome nature of the carnage (pictures have been moved to your Light Entertainment folder), Bunny spent most of her time stapling RED team members to the wall in compromising positions or, on one wall, spelling out "LOLOLOLOLOL." Her skill can't be questioned, but perhaps a better use of her time could be found, so that she can use that prodigious fool's luck to up her kill count?

 _Pauling: I "dug her up" in the same place I find everyone; where I happen to look. And have the photos framed, please; I need some motivational art for the halls._

 

Recovered draft of article from _Crazed Gunman Monthly_ :

Our special guest for the September issue comes to us from the hallowed halls of the Builders League United, those illustrious fighters who have so far refused to answer any of our requests for an interview -- until now! Miss "Bunny" as she refers to herself, [editor's note: can we please get corroboration on her full name?] {No, we cannot. You want to hire another private investigator, you send more money.} has worked with BLU for the last three years, and we're very happy to give her the coveted Golden Van award for her ruthless slaughter over that timespan.

Miss B cuts an impressive figure among our Golden Van winners, and not just because she's cute as a well-armed button! The first time our correspondent saw her, dear readers, she practically bounced into the CGM offices, squealing like a little girl as she picked up the Golden Van and swinging it around. "This is the best honor I've had since the drop-bears made me their queen!" she told CGM, hugging our correspondent to the point of cracked ribs. [Editor's note: Lucky you.] {Hardly. I'm not joking about the cracked ribs. Insurance claims are on their way.} "See, this was just after the party down in Alice Springs, but before they'd started posting my picture in Melbourne, so I was still several days ahead of the cops, and after the ritual combat --" [Editor's note: You cannot expect us to publish this! Half of it doesn't even make sense, and the other half makes my head hurt worse than a Scandinavian film festival.] {I transcribed her entire answer, dammit, and if I had to write it then you have to read it.} "-- and that's why I'm an only child!"

As you can see, Miss B's approach to her work, not to mention narrative convention, is a little unorthodox. [Editor's note: I'll say.] And while she may not be the most prolific of our Golden Van winners, with what she calls a "K/D ratio that's not really up among the pro levels," we do have to award her some style points. Miss B has a tendency to the dramatic, particularly when it comes to her bow-and-arrow work, and I doubt there's a _CGM_ reader out there who hasn't been entertained by her YouTube channel and its entertaining little vignettes. [Editor's note: Leave that out. I thought we'd agreed they were staged.] { _Not_ staged. Trust me.}

When we asked her opinion of why her BLU counterparts have been so loath to pay any attention to us at _CGM_ , Miss B offered her explanation that they were "totally lame, and stuffy besides, even if they are kinda cute! They're always on about 'professionalism' and 'standards' and 'stop shooting us, we're on your side,' and 'we're not even in the middle of a match!' _Lame_." (We can't really say she's wrong, dear reader!) Miss B, however, is hardly one to hold a grudge. [Editor's note: or even the same thought in her head for more than a minute] {I'm not so sure. She got your address, remember? And I'm pretty sure she was behind in the rankings for the Golden Van till the last minute.}

In terms of style, we have to admit that Miss B has it all. We asked what her turn-ons and turn-offs were, and [Editor's note: I am not printing this. I don't think you can even do that to a cassowary.] {You can. She showed me the photographs. I'm pretty sure that constituted a turn-off, though.} she had some very unique answers. Top of the turn-on list, though, was the feel of a rifle's recoil and the satisfaction of a job well done. {She didn't really say this, but I don't know how many of our readers know what "pwning noobs" means.} [Editor's note: I don't know what it means.]

Off the field, Miss B is even more relaxed. [Editor's note: Where are the photos? I asked for a full photo shoot!] {We did the photo shoot! Bikini and everything, just like you asked! I sent the negatives to you with the pretty French courier, remember?} [Editor's note: _What_ French courier?]

It is with a heavy heart and soiled drawers that we bid a fond farewell to this year's Golden Van recipient, and Miss B is just as sorry to leave us. "You'll be sure to write, okay? I love pen pals! We can trade friendship bracelets!" [Editor's note: What?] {I think she'd confused us with summer camp at this point.} "And I'll be sure to send party favors! Funnelwebs for everyone!" With many blown kisses, Miss B departs our offices, but we'll be looking forward to seeing her again.

[Editor's note: Do not let this woman back in the _CGM_ offices. The party favors arrived today.]

* * *

 

Bunny's characterization diverges greatly from the established canon, but hell, I wanted to write the other kind of sniper, the one who makes all the calm, professional ones look bad.  Besides, I think Bunny's the only one who understands she's part of a game, even if it's not quite a good thing in her case.


	9. Molly (Demo)

You may remember an earlier report on this particular demolition expert, from the Letter to Shareholders in which we had to quell concerns over the monocular nature of our demolition experts. I compiled a list of our best experts and their kill counts, provided slides comparing them to shareholder examples, and allowed several members of the teams to speak. Luckily, the resulting explosion obviated any need to get scrumpy stains out of the upholstery. Molly MacPherson may be one of the youngest members of either team, but her kill count puts any depth-perception-gifted competitors to shame. She takes a care in her work that I can only attribute to innate talent or memorization to the point of indoctrination -- it can't be the result of basic training, since her blood alcohol content is usually too high for that. We've also made a valuable ally in her alma mater, the Little Sisters of St. Euphemia the Incendiary, who I understand have purchased a substantial amount of stock on Miss MacPherson's recommendation, enough that following the tragic boardroom incident they now have a spot on our Advisory Board. I believe this doubles if not trebles Miss MacPherson's value to the team.

 _Pauling: That reminds me -- call the Mother Superior and tell her to bring the good stuff to the next meeting, not that Glenlivet swill._

 

Police Report [number and date redacted]

Subject was stopped on Route 15 for broken taillight on her Vespa. Officer Bergman noted smell of alcohol and issued sobriety test. Results of breathalyzer have been sent to Ripley's Believe It Or Not, but officer swears subject passed all physical sobriety tests. Officer Bergman did search the small trailer behind the Vespa; contents follow:

\- Nitroglycerin (5 kg),

\- Gunpowder (8 kg),

\- "Refined" gunpowder (7 kg),

\- C4 (10 kg)

\- Unidentifiable substance marked only as "The Good Stuff" (20 kg, minus sample that Assistant Lab Tech Hendricks tested; see attached police reports and insurance claims as well as missing person report for Assistant Lab Tech Hendricks),

\- Bottle of scrumpy (1),

\- Empty bottle of scrumpy (6),

\- Packets of "Scrump-Lite! Instant Diet Scrumpy Mix" (11 unopened, one opened and apparently subsequently mangled),

\- Menu for Harga's House of Ribs,

\- Stub for gift subscription to _Guns and Haircuts_ magazine, carefully folded and pinned to ticket stubs from "Girls' Night at the Gravel Pits,"

\- Picture of subject with a woman in military garb; Deputy Patterson, on seeing this picture, screamed like a little girl and hid under his desk, later citing Report D-224, the "Men's Club/Rocket Launcher" incident,

\- Wrapped present labeled "To the Best Da in All the World"; Examination revealed audio tapes of Sir Walter Scott novels, plus what appears to be a ceramic ashtray (trace elements of nitroglycerin and scrumpy in glaze),

\- Small religious icon, identified as St. Euphemia the Incendiary, patron of the only known Presbyterian nunnery,

\- Carefully folded graduation banner from St. Euphemia's Graduating Class of[redacted]; several burn marks and a large "Good Luck!" across the bottom,

\- Seventy-page manifesto on the nature of the True Scotsman; thesis seems to be that any "fookin' Highlander," especially a "fookin' DeGroot" does not deserve to be called a Scot,

\- Eyepatches with days of the week embroidered on inside, minus Tuesday (subject was apprehended on a Tuesday),

\- Folding workbench,

\- Precision measuring tools, reinforced glass alembics, and other equipment,

\- Notebook with dense chemical formulae; Assistant Lab Tech Hendricks attempted to decipher before testing "The Good Stuff;" joined Deputy Patterson underneath his desk for half an hour, muttering "the whole world, all in little bitty pieces" and gnawing on the linoleum,

\- Small, curiously shaped knife with runic patterns engraved on the blade; Sub-Deputy Winkler inspected in dim light to verify first impression that blade was glowing; has since joined Deputy Patterson under his desk, insisting that the blade was whispering threats against his genitalia.

Officer Bergman attempted to apprehend subject, but suffered cranial injury from what even the local EMTs admit was "an impressive headbutt," and subject fled on Vespa. Storage locker was examined and logged, but contents were stolen the next night by what three masked individuals, one of whom set most of the station on fire. Subject was not among them, because she was waiting for us at the other end of the station with several bags of what the lab has labeled "fun-size grenades." Deputy Patterson would like to contest the "fun" part of that term.

In related news, Deputy Patterson, Sub-Deputy Winkler, Officer Bergman, and myself would all like to request a transfer. If we ever find Assistant Lab Tech Hendricks, I think he'd say the same.


	10. Olga (Heavy)

Olga Medvedovna, despite her origins, has proven herself a shrewd capitalist, as evidenced by her ongoing contract negotiations and the despair of our accounting department. Judging by the terrified thank-you notes we've received, the bulk of her compensation goes to her eight children in Russia. (Medvedovna's success in the field, by the way, indicates a potential opening up of hiring practices; angry mothers make excellent agents of destruction.) She has even gone to the point of having herself listed as a research assistant on Eisenbrust's most recent paper, "Blunt-Force Trauma versus Hollow-point Bullets: A Class Analysis" in order to claim a share of the funding. For the record, I think she's earned the title, and I've advised our accounting department to let the "outside employment" form go for now.

 _Pauling: You may have a point about the hiring practices. Pull up some of our scouts' files; I think we might have some candidates there._

Transcript of scrapped footage from _Titanium Nurturing! The Mann Co. Approach to Maternity Leave_ :

Interviewer: All right, let's begin. You are an employee of Mann Co., yes?

O.M.: Nyet. Is more complicated than that.

Cameraman (offscreen): It's fine. We got approval for this one.

Interviewer: ...Okay. That's just fine, then. And you have how many --

O.M.: I work for contractor. Contractor is customer of Mann Co. Is mutually beneficial relationship.

Interviewer: Yes, that's fine, anyway. How many children do you have?

O.M.: This is relevant why?

Interviewer: To establish your credentials. See, we'd like all maternal figures within the company to speak a little about their own experiences, as a way of showing how our corporate --

O.M.: Credentials, I have. I kill fifteen RED only yesterday. With bare fists. That is credentials. Also I have eight children.

Interviewer: Eight. Wow. And what advice would you have for anyone facing a similar situation?

O.M.: Depends. Are they RED team?

Interviewer: Um --

Cameraman: Let's say no, for now.

Interviewer: No. But do you have any words for those who are preparing for a new bundle of joy?

O.M.: Da, yes, of course. Is always momentous occasion when new arrival comes along.

Interviewer: Great. So what --

O.M.: First, remember that this is expensive course of action. Is not a decision to take lightly.

Interviewer: Yes, that's why Mann Co. has such a great leave plan --

O.M.: I am not Mann Co. But. We move on. One must have everything prepared. Is important to have room all ready. Is nesting instinct, da? I paint mural on wall after I know arrival date.

Interviewer: Oh, that's lovely! A landscape, maybe some animals?

O.M.: Landscape, some. Mostly good representation of industry and solidarity. Ran out of blue and black paint; had to switch to yellow. Is good, though.

Interviewer: . . . yes, I suppose high contrast images are important in those first few days.

O.M.: When room is all ready for arrival, I prepare resting place, cleaning table, all important supplies. Then, is just long wait. I am -- I do not know word, is "giddy" maybe? So excited, so happy for what will come. Frau Doktor, she also is excited, though because _nemetskaya_ , she does not show it so much. But she is happy for me, da?

Interviewer: So you had a good relationship with your doctor?

O.M.: Oh yes. Is vital. Absolutely vital. Doktor takes good care of me. I still remember, she is one bring me bundle, on last day of waiting. She gives bundle to me, I unwrap it, and there, there is my Ilya.

Interviewer: Here's a tissue.

O.M.: _Spasibo_. Is emotional moment, even now. You ask if I have advice? Take these moments. Keep them. Guard them like BLU team guard control point. I have picture somewhere; memento of first days.

Cameraman: Great, we can use it for a montage. (O.M. hands picture to someone offscreen.)

Interviewer: So you'd tell anyone expecting a child to prepare for these tender moments, to record and cherish them.

O.M. (blows nose): What?

Interviewer: I -- uh, you said these moments are important, and --

Cameraman: Hang on. This picture --

O.M.: Children? Bah, children, they manage. Good Russian stock; I put them outside in snow, they are fine. No, you say bundle of joy, I tell you about the arrival of my Ilya. What is problem?

Interviewer: Ilya?

O.M.: This is Ilya. (Camera shakes and thumps as O.M. moves something around.)

Interviewer: Cut the tape. Cut the tape now.

Cameraman: Actually, it's a really cute picture --

Interviewer: I don't care, cut the tape!

O.M.: Say hello to nice lady, Ilya.

(Tape ends)


	11. Addendum 12a: Karaoke Night

"Did we have to invite Mack?" Ginny kept her voice down as she and Pip trailed behind the other two BLU team. "I mean, she's certainly enthusiastic enough, bless her heart, but she's not exactly the first person I think of when it comes to a night on the town."

"Yeah, we did have to invite her, and I'll tell you why." Pip nodded to Molly, now walking arm-in-arm with the soldier and singing something about gravel. "You don't know about this, 'coz you're always off somewhere else by the end of the night."

"That's not true," Ginny said. Pip gave her a look. "Okay, it is true. But you gotta admit, some of those gentlemen had fine biceps. Good hands, too," she added with a smile.

"Yeah, well, the thing is that every time the three of us go out, you're the one who's off erectin' a dispenser while I'm the one who has to carry Molly home while she cries over Mack."

Ginny's eyebrows rose, pushing her everpresent goggles further up her forehead. "Won't admit to it sober, huh?"

"You ever see Molly sober? No, the problem is she won't admit to it till she's near-unconscious, and I'm tired of lugging her back to the base. I don't know what she eats, she's skinnier than I am but she's heavier than the Russkie." Pip grinned. "I figure if Mack comes along with us, that'll solve the problem."

Ginny was silent a moment. "You thought that through, didn't you?"

"Put my whole brainbox into it, Tex." "Well, bless your heart, I can't see any way this could go wrong." Ginny ran a hand through her curls, down from their braid for once, and shook her head. "Hold up a minute, girls. We're here."

Mack and Molly didn't hear her. "-- oh, a pit's not a pit with no gravel in it, so --" Pip scooped up a pair of empty beer cans from the sidewalk and tossed them squarely at her teammates' heads. The resulting thud (and clang in Mack's case) stopped the song, and Molly turned so that her good eye faced the scout. "The fook was that, Pip?"

"We're here already." She pointed to the sign above the door: _Velvet Fog Karaoke Bar_ , and below it on a hand-lettered sign, _Ladies' Night!_

Mack leaned back far enough that she could see past her helmet. "This is a den of objectification and a haven for the male gaze," she announced.

"Yeah, but they got great cocktails," Pip said.

"All the more reason for us to take it over," Ginny cut in smoothly.

An evil smile crossed Mack's face. "You have a point there, my Hephaestian friend. Lead on."

The bar was cramped, dark, and this early in the evening, pretty much empty. A few scattered tables stood at this end of the floor, but at the far end was the important thing: a little stage with a machine and speakers, as well as a sign reading _Karaoke! Hosted by your favorite crooner!_

Molly gave the racks of bottles over the bar a measuring look."Why'd we come here? Why not O'Neill's?"

"Because you blew up O'Neill's," Pip said. "And their doorman keeps making puppy eyes at Ginny whenever we go back there. Besides, I got the name of this place from Sparky. She says it's fantastic."

"If a member of my team asserts the superiority of this oasis, then I will support her assessment!" Mack stomped to the bar and glared at the taps.

The bartender, a gangly young man who'd only been on the job about a month, smiled at her. "What can I get for you?"

"A beer!"

The bartender's smile slowly wilted. "Any, uh, particular kind of beer?"

Mack's helmet slid down a little, the equivalent of a furrowed brow. "An _American_ beer!" He nodded slowly, then moved to the taps.

"It is bad enough," a clipped voice cut through Pip's excited announcement of the drinks menu, "that I have to listen to all of you calling for me all day, but must I see you in the evening as well?"

The girls turned to see a familiar pair of silhouettes at the end of the bar. Dr. Eisenbrust regarded them frostily through her spectacles. This, of course, didn't stop Pip. "Hiya, doc!" she said, waving. "How come you're out here and not cutting up some kittens?"

"Kittens are passé," Eisenbrust said dismissively.

"Pyro recommended vodka selection," the hulking figure by the doctor said. "Is adequate. Besides, is time to celebrate!"

A thin smile crept to Eisenbrust's lips. "I have just received word that my grant proposal was accepted."

"Oh?" Ginny leaned over the bar, dropping a bill in front of the bartender and pointing to the Jake's Hard Sweet Tea tap. "Which one? They give you everything you ask for?"

"Everything and then some. Research money, travel funds, reconstructive and deconstructive surgery . . ." The doctor sighed happily. "But truly, now is not the time to relax. Now we should soberly consider how best to use these funds --"

"Is not a time for being sober." Medvedovna clapped the doctor on the shoulder, knocking her half a step into the bar. "I tell doctor this, she does not believe me, I convince her. Find babysitter for Ilya -- Miss Pauling who works for angry woman. And we go out." She put an arm around Eisenbrust's shoulders and squeezed, then nudged the tumblerfull of vodka closer. "Come, drink. We celebrate."

Eisenbrust grimaced, adjusted her glasses, and fixed the bartender with a look that gave him horrible flashbacks to second grade. "Ein Berliner weisse mit schuss, please."

The bartender -- -- stared at her. "Sorry?"

"Oh, just give her a Foster's Light. It works out to the same thing." The girls turned just in time to see Bunny bound up next to Eisenbrust and give her a quick, engulfing hug. "Hiya, doc! You out on the town too?"

Medvodovna answered for her, slamming another empty glass on the bar. "Doktor has received funding," she announced. "We celebrate." She punctuated the latter with a reproachful glare at Eisenbrust, who sighed.

"Oh, peachy! Hugs all around, then!"

The doctor put up both hands. "Please, no. I do not think your outfit could take the strain," she added, raising an eyebrow.

"What, this old thing?" Bunny looked down at the -- well, it could have been a dress, for a midget maybe, but on her it was mostly blue sparkles and hope. "Oh, it's a special occasion, isn't it, Amelie?"

"Indeed it is." The remaining members of the BLU team spun around. The slender Frenchwoman, who'd materialized just behind them, only smiled and stalked to the bar.

"You know I hate it when you do that," Eisenbrust snapped.

Amelie shrugged, the gesture rendered exquisitely eloquent in her understated sheath dress. "You heal, I sneak. It is our nature, and as such does not exist only on the battlefield." She slid onto the stool next to Bunny, selecting a drink menu from its little stand. "Nevertheless, congratulations on your breakthrough. I trust it will prove fruitful to our employers."

"Employers, ja, but science first."

"Can't argue with that," Ginny said, and winked as the bartender set a frosty mug of Sweet Tea before her.

Amelie's lip curled as if she would disagree, but she let it stand. "Myself and petite lapin, we are here for a more frivolous reason. Today is, or more accurately cannot be disproven to be, my birthday, and Bunny --"

"It's the sixth anniversary of the Great Wallaby Fight! You'd have liked it, Heavy; boxing everywhere. Only they don't like it when you put gloves on their feet. Believe me, I tried! So we're out on the town so I can score with some hot young men!"

Eisenbrust pushed up her glasses. "And how is that working out for you?"

"Oh, it's been fun!" She turned and engulfed Amelie in another abundant hug. "Ammi's my wingman! Only we don't seem to be having much luck so far."

"They were not good enough for you, cherie." Amelie smirked at Medvedovna and Eisenbrust, daring them to say something. Her smile turned frosty as she took in the bartender, who hadn't moved or even blinked since Bunny's arrival. "Were you not told to fetch a weak beer for the doctor?"

The bartender snapped back to attention. "Uh. Yes. Right away."

"Oh, hold on, I want to order, let's see . . ." Bunny scanned the menu in Amelie's hand. "I'll have a Pinkie Pop-Tart, please. Oh, oh, and can you put one of those little umbrellas in it?"

"Sure. Anything. And for you, um, ma'am?"

Amelie glanced again at the menu, her brows drawing together. Finally she sighed and set it down. "I want a brandy alexander. You can approximate that, certainly?"

"I -- sure. Yeah. Hang on, I gotta start up the machinery for the stage show first."

Amelie shook her head. "I am beginning to think our inflammatory friend's assessment of this place was too complimentary by half."

"Hang on." Molly leaned over Mack's shoulder. "If you heard about this place from Sparky, and you did, and we did -- then how'd she hear about it?"

The lights dimmed, and a spotlight appeared on stage. "Ladies and gentlemen," a recorded voice announced, "please welcome the golden tones of your karaoke host!"

The BLU team stared in mutual shock as a familiar, dumpy shape shuffled onto stage, picked up the microphone, and drew a deep breath. " _Hrr_ da . . . hrrda hrr hr . . . _hrrr_ da . . ."

As the next few bars of "Feelings" continued, Eisenbrust turned to her companion. "I think I have changed my mind about that vodka."

* * *

The next couple of hours passed with more inexplicably popular songs from Sparky (including a version of "I'll Take You Home Again, Kathleen" that had Bunny sniffling), a startlingly good Slim Whitman impersonation from Ginny (the finer points of which were, alas, lost on Pip, who tried to stuff a bar stool in her ears), a version of "Shipping up to Boston" that was quickly cut off when it became clear Pip intended to replace most of the lyrics with obscenities, and Mack's continuing incomprehension regarding the lack of either "Star-Spangled Banner" or "I Am Woman" on the list of songs. The bar began to fill up, but it soon became clear that the stage had been claimed by the BLU team. Since most of the clientele were there to watch rather than sing, it worked out all right.

After a while, the bartender gave up on serving Medvedovna quickly enough and settled for plonking a fresh bottle of vodka in front of her (and the now-wobbling doctor) every so often. This may have been a miscalculation, as it now gave him more time to get Amelie's drink order wrong. The brandy alexander was deemed more of a brandy ptolemy, the dry Manhattan came out as a sweet Manhattan, the layers of Frangelico and Kahlua somehow got jostled in her next drink, and his lemon-twisting technique apparently would make Dionysus cry bitter tears of disappointment, according to Amelie. The last straw appeared to be a peach Bellini, apparently to complement Bunny's Fuzzy Navel.

"This is undrinkable." Amelie did not raise her voice, but somehow it still cut through the noise of the crowd. "I would not use this to clean windows."

The bartender stared at her with an expression that any Pyro would recognize: the look of someone who has been set on fire five times already and has just stepped around a corner to see another happy gas-mask. "I'm very sorry, ma'am," he said mechanically. "Maybe a glass of wine, or something straight up --"

"No. No, I think I will go easy on you." She set down her glass, folded her hands, and regarded him like a diplomat at the negotiating table. "I will just have a simple dry martini."

The bartender's shoulders drooped, and he made a small, almost inaudible whimper. Any possible response he could have made, though, was drowned in a screech of feedback and sparks. All eyes turned to the stage, where Medvedovna, who had been beating out time for "Rah Rah Rasputin" on the karaoke machine, raised her hand from the crumpled console. "Cardboard," she said disgustedly. "All little machines made of cardboard. Like men today."

"Sorryma'amtechnicaldifficulties." The bartender practically leaped out from behind the bar and hurried up to the stage. Ginny leaned over his shoulder as he inspected the wreckage.

"Ah, it don't look bad. You got any tools in the back?"

"A couple," he said faintly, staring at the shattered machine.

"Come on, then. We'll have this up and running quicker than a gingered nag." She tucked the mess of parts under one arm, took the microphone from Medvedovna, and patted the bartender on the back as she escorted him past the stage.

"How are we gonna sing now?" Bunny asked. "I was gonna do ABBA again!"

"Bah!" A skinny arm thrust between her and Amelie. "You frilly little pansy southerners need music to sing? You don't know the first thing about drinking or singing!" Molly shoved her way to the front, glared at Medvedovna till she stepped back, and after a couple of tries, climbed up onto the stage. She squinted through the spotlight, took a long swig of her drink (a Lowlander's Revenge, according to the bartender, consisting mostly of whisky and other whisky), and wiped her mouth. "A real drinking song," she said, "only needs a few things: a drink, a singer, and some fookin' regret. You! In the front! Can you keep a beat?"

Sparky nodded, rapping her fingers against the table with a solid _clonk_.

Molly closed her eyes, then began to sing in a startlingly sweet alto that almost made up for the content of the song -- something about cutting off heads and boiling them in oil. A voice in the back of the bar laughed, though, and Mack joined in, with enthusiasm if no actual tunefulness. Medvedovna chuckled and thumped the Scot on the shoulder. "You understand drinking." "'Course I fookin' do!"

Soon the whole bar was joining in on other songs from the traditional Scottish genre of "Songs About Fighting Those Other Bastards." Finally Molly drained the last of her drink, elbowed Medvedovna off the stage, and started in on "The Minstrel Boy."

Bunny burst into tears and sobbed against Amelie, whose expression of disdain faded slightly. Pip emerged from the ladies' room and stared. "Did I go into the wrong bar?" she asked Medvedovna, who stood watching with an expression of approval.

"Nyet. Is same." She glanced down at Pip. "Where is engineer?"

"In the back." Pip snorted. "So we won't be seeing her for a bit. Where's the doc?"

"In bathroom. I think. Turns out doktor _does_ like vodka."

Molly finished the song and stumbled off the stage. "And that's, that's for you," she announced, pointing at Mack, "the best fookin' soldier in the whole fookin' world -- do you know, I --"

The microphone dropped, and so did Molly, pitching over headfirst with a gentle snore. Mack caught her and put her over one shoulder. "You done good, kid. You've done all your foremothers proud."

Awkward pauses were not usually something the team was sensitive to, but this time they looked away. "So what now?" Pip said. "I sure as hell ain't going in the back to see if Ginny's done yet."

"Now?" A giant beer stein crashed onto the table in front of her, slopping foam everywhere. "Now is the time for polka!" Eisenbrust vaulted behind the bar and knocked the taps open. "Beer for everyone, ja? On the haus! Nein, on the country!" She laughed in much the same way as she laughed after disemboweling an enemy spy. "After all -- _I have funding!_ " The resulting roar more than made up for the lack of music.

Pip stared, mouth agape, and barely noticed when Ginny nudged her arm. "Where'd the doc get the beer steins?" the engineer asked mildly.

"Never mind that, where'd she get the dirndl?" Pip shook her head, then did a double-take. "You're done already?"

"Yep." Ginny grinned. "And here we go: one karaoke machine, fixed. With some improvements." Without bothering to look, she swatted Pip's hand away from the new red button on the side. "That's the turbo-sonic overdrive. You should probably leave that alone for now."

"So why the hell'd you add it?"

The engineer shrugged. "Seemed like a good idea at the time."

"Yeah, I'm betting the polka music did too." The scout glanced back at the bar, where Medvedovna had procured a concertina and was doing her best to play "Roll Out the Barrel" with some form of help from both Sparky and Eisenbrust. The bartender, ousted by the German doctor, sat a little ways away with the remainder of Amelie's drink in front of him and a rather dazed expression. "You got any ideas?"

"Might." She lugged the machine to the stage, set it up, and picked up the microphone. "Sister Sledge has a couple ideas too. Ladies? BLU team? I think it's time for an ensemble song."

It took a couple of tries -- Mack, in particular, was still unclear on the concept, and Eisenbrust refused to sing without a stein in her hand -- but about halfway through "We Are Family" the whole team caught on. The other denizens of the bar (except for the bartender, who'd toppled over with a big smile on his face) cheered and clapped, possibly out of the subconscious realization that if they didn't there might be dire consequences.

"-- telling you, it's Ladies' Night, so that means there's tons of dames just waiting for a couple of good men to say hi." The nasal Boston accent cut through the last note of the song. Everyone on stage looked up to see the bar door opening. "I'll flex a few times, you do -- whatever it is you do, and voyla, instant chicks --"

The red-shirted scout -- and the similarly dressed men behind him -- stopped before they'd made it more than a few feet into the bar. They might be a little cleaner than their usual state on the battlefield, but those silhouettes were recognizable instantly. As were those of the team on stage.

Molly raised her head from Mack's shoulder, blinked a few times, and focused on the intruders. "RED team," she mumbled, then seemingly without ill effects from her unconsciousness, reached down and smashed one of the chairs against the stage. "Let's get them, girls!" she yelled, brandishing a chair-leg.

Pip leaned past her and hit the "turbo-sonic overdrive" switch.

* * *

Administrator: I've been trying to patch together the rest of the evening's events in order to determine which team we should charge with the public damages, etc. Records are a bit spotty, though. As far as I can figure:

\- the city-block-wide swath of destruction appears to have been the result of a six-person melee through downtown, based on the fire damage and noise complaints of competing versions of "Scotland the Brave," not to mention the . . . unique . . . vandalism of the obelisk in the center of town,

\- the RED scout was found dangling from a flagpole by his undergarments with "CURSE OF THE BAMBINA, BITCH" scrawled on the ground,

\- according to the official records, both Amelie and Bunny returned to the base early and spent the rest of the evening watching Disney movies. However, the RED sniper continually complains of phantom spiders, while we have received six extradition requests from different countries for the RED spy, whose location was apparently leaked,

\- the RED medic and heavy were in a gutter behind the bar; the heavy's head had been jammed into a hole in the wall and "NOT PART OF THE CONTROL GROUP" written on his backside, while the medic was mumbling something about not having much fun in Stalingrad,

\- and though there are no reports of either team's engineer that evening following their departure from the bar, the invention rate for both has seen a significant uptick. I refuse to speculate on why.

A detailed expense listing and breakdown is attached.

 

 _Pauling: Charge all damages to the RED team; it's what they get for losing. And give a hefty raise to everyone on Team 18B. They've performed quite adequately, for now._

**Author's Note:**

> And there it is, belated but complete. Happy birthday, Ori. You're the best at space.


End file.
